We have goats.....up until early this morning we had four. Mama Goat, our old-aged African Pygmy and herd queen, died in her sleep. It wasn't a shock nor was it a surprise. She was up there for a goat....we figure she was about twelve years old and according to our vet that's quite impressive for her kind....and this past fall when the weather began to change I noticed the age of her more clearly.
I would catch her from our living room window as she sauntered from her stall to the hay trough and often her step would falter, her forelegs buckling ever so slightly, her backlegs just barely keeping her from a fall. She had stopped disciplining the young twin billys, Cheech and Chong, and would give over her space at the greens bucket without her usual fight to Willie, the resident whether (think mule....there's a reason we call him 'Willie-no-willie...get it?) without her usual head-butting discipline.
I could see his confusion at this. We brought him home three summers ago and it was Mama Goat he had quickly recognized as the herd queen, at that time Mama Goat reigned supreme over the spacious and lush space we have fenced off for our goats between the north end of our house and the train tracks. Lucy, her daughter, was still with us then....still two seasons away from that Thanksgiving weekend when a black bear would take her from us forever. I remember the violence of her death, the twisted fence with her silver tipped black fur mixed with the bear's thick black fur still clinging, the look of disbelief on the rest of the herd as they skittered around the pen. A neighbour and farmer more experienced than us had patted me on the shoulder and said "This is what owning animals is about...you lose them...and then you carry on" .
Mama Goat's death was quieter, less dramatic, like her I suppose. A cold snap hit the Island two weeks ago along with an early dumping of wet, cold coastal snow. Feeding the goats that last morning before the temperature would dip to minus 10 Mama Goat collapsed at my feet, just dropped like a stone without a sound. I helped her up and she continued to eat out of the bucket, munching away on potato peels and celery ends, and as I gave her a quick once-over I knew. Her eyes were not quite as glossy and clear as they used to be, her beatiful coat looking ever so ragged and rough.....enough of a change to let me know her end was near.
Two mornings later I went out to feed them and only three came running to greet me at the gate. My steps in the snow and muck toward the stall seemed in slow motion and squished with foreboding. Mama Goat lay nestled in her stall, her legs curled under her like a cat, her head up but shaking slightly. She tried hard to get up but even with my help she just couldn't do it.
I hand fed her grain and water, packed her in tight with fresh hay and an old wool blanket my mother in law once kept in her car, the tartan faded and holey now and covered in cat hair...but it smelled of us and I thought that might give Mama Goat some comfort.
The vet came, gave her an anti-inflammatory shot, checked her vitals which were suprisingly good, noted her accelerated arthritis and slight weight loss and gave us his words of wisdom.
"If she doesn't get up by Monday then call me," he said kindly as he stroked her massive head. "We can do bloodwork if you like...but you might just have to ready to make a decision."
Mama Goat never got up again. We tried everything, a heat lamp, raised her up onto a pallet lined with even more hay, continued to give her water and grain to keep her nourished and comfortable. Last night I checked on her once more before turning in. She 'maaaaed' at me...low and tired-like and raised her head to me for what would be the last time. She took some water, a few fatigued slurps from the bowl I placed under her mouth, then looked up at me before laying her head down in the hay.
This much I know as a goat-owner......once their head goes down and their necks curl in, once they begin breathing with an open-mouth, once they no longer gobble up grain from your palm....it's all over.
I patted her on the head, stroked her beautifully-curled horns, scratched her lovely ears and spoke of Lucy and of summer days she had loved so much, of the black bears that would no longer torment her, the rain she sought cover from before a drop even landed on her gorgeous coat. I told her she was a good old girl, she gave our family joy, and that if she was tired then she should just go.
Which is what she did some time during the night. I stepped into the goat shed this morning and the stillness of the air, the look on my other goats' faces told me what another two steps and a look into the stall would confirm.
Mama Goat was gone. Curled into herself, almost under the blanket and the hay I had surrounded her with. Back to the earth, back to beginning of the circle.....
My dogs sat back from me on their haunches, the big dog's face looking at me as though questioning.
"She's gone Sadie..." I said to the dog that fought so hard to keep them all safe. Sadie looked after the herd...or trip as I've read a group of goats referred as....the best she could. She had the bear that took Lucy up a cedar tree at three o'clock in the morning for about three hours, barking incessantly at the nerve of the brute to come into HER territory and take one of her own.
And that's really all that pets become, whether clawed, feathered, furred or cloven-hoofed....they become one of our own. My goats are my pets right alongside my dogs and my cats and although they have never curled up alongside my feet in front of the woodstove, or snuggled in tight behind my legs on the sofa, I have always kept them as safe, fed and warm as I possibly can. In return they teach me and mine about the circle of life, the wonder of the seasons and the amazing dynamic of how a herd operates.
Willie is in charge now...it's obvious to me looking out the window at the three remaining goats. He looks confused, bewildered yet the instincts bred into his kind radiate from his place in line. He's next...he's the heir although Mama Goat never bore him. The twin billys will follow his lead until the circle comes round again.
